


The Porcelain Doll

by SapphireSmoke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireSmoke/pseuds/SapphireSmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A porcelain doll, that's what she was. She wasn't real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Porcelain Doll

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd

A porcelain doll, that’s what she was. She wasn’t real.

She was a thing of beauty to be admired at and played with at anyone’s will, then tossed aside like nothing more than a forgotten toy. She was beautiful; therefore she should not have feelings. She was already blessed in life; therefore didn’t deserve much more from it. She should be pleased with the attention brought forth from her looks, for every woman dreams of being the object of men’s desires. She should be pleased, she should be _grateful_ … even if it was unwanted, even if it felt like a violation.

She should be happy because she’s beautiful.

But Narcissa wasn’t happy. Her beauty had brought her nothing but pain throughout her entire life. As a child she was picked on by the other girls; jealous because of the attention boys paid her. As a teenager her virginity was taken by her sister, in a rage because she hated Narcissa’s perfection and how she was favored by their Mother. She saw fit to destroy her and very nearly did. As an adult she was auctioned up to the highest bidder, without a chance to say for herself who she had wanted. Then she was taken unwillingly, night after night, because that’s what a dutiful wife should do; please her husband. As a mother she sought to find the love she was missing; the willingness to live. But her son was the image of his father and when he was old enough he took her as well, the stench of ale on his breath as he ripped away the last remaining hope inside of her.

No one saw her to be a person; no one recognized that she lived and breathed just as the rest of them did. They didn’t take into account the fact that she could feel, that she could laugh and she could cry. She was just something pretty to look at. She was someone they could take their anger out on. She was someone who barely existed.

Narcissa had lost count how many times she had cried herself to sleep, how many times she had locked herself in the bathroom and stayed there for hours, shaking and sobbing after another intimate encounter that she never wished for. She tried to be strong but she was starting to feel so hollow; like the shell they all assumed she was.

She lost count how many times she wished for death.

Bellatrix was always violent when she took her; cackling at her madly and humiliating her just because she could. Her favorite thing to do was sodomize her, possible to degrade her further; destroy her because of her deep-seeded resentment towards her. But Narcissa had been degraded long before then, her soul destroyed years ago. She would take fistfuls of Narcissa’s hair, wrenching her neck back almost painfully and asked her if she liked that. She’d get so angry when all she was met with was tears. Bellatrix hated human weakness and sought to eradicate it. She desired that Narcissa would never cry for her again; though she didn’t go about it with kindness. No, that would be something far outside Bellatrix’s emotional capabilities. So she taught her obedience with pain instead. After awhile, Narcissa became numb to her touch, her voice detached as she spoke the words Bellatrix needed to hear; that she enjoyed being viciously fucked into submission by her older sister.

It didn’t matter anyway, if she did or if she didn’t. Nothing would change either way.

Lucius was far more bearable, though much more frequent. He never asked to take what he wanted, but he would at least _attempt_ to please her in the process. He always failed miserably though and Narcissa took to faking her orgasms just so he would stop trying. It was difficult on the days she found herself completely dry, for she couldn’t fake her arousal then. But Lucius never seemed to actually care either way; he would still fuck her, making the process utterly unbearable because of the pain as her insides were rubbed raw. Sometimes she would bleed after, yet she didn’t know if Lucius ever noticed. He tended to just roll over after he was done; promptly passing out. Once he got off, nothing else mattered.

Draco was rare; he only came to her when he was drunk, though out of the three he seemed to be the worst just because he was her little boy. Their encounters always made her nauseous. She sometimes wished that he would just come in and take her hard and fast, but that was never the case. He never just entered her; he always made a big spectacle of it first. He’d go down on her; doing everything he could to please her. He felt the need to _dote_ upon her like she was made of perfection. It sickened her as her body involuntarily reacted to his ministrations, though she fought long and hard, not allowing herself to have an orgasm because of what her _son_ was doing to her. She would fake one and then he would get on top of her, fucking her until he had his fill.

Narcissa lived in constant fear. Every little sound made her jump, every shadow made her heart race. She didn’t know who would be next and how they would take her so she ended up becoming increasingly paranoid and fearful of everything around her. She dreaded when her eyes opened in the mornings; wishing she could just sleep forever since it was the only time she felt truly at peace. As the years ticked by, Narcissa thought about running, about mutilating herself so she was no longer desirable, and about death.

She couldn’t live like this. She wouldn’t. Yet she stayed for fear of what they would do to her if they caught her in the middle of any of those acts.

Every time someone told her she was beautiful she wanted to cry. She had begun to hate what should have been a compliment. She didn’t understand how anyone could possibly want beauty when all it came with was pain and abuse. She was beautiful, yes… but she was nothing because of it. After awhile, she was no longer able to feel; food tasted bland, music sounded like white noise. Nothing was enjoyable; not a warm summers night or the colors of the sunset. She walked through life as nothing more than a doll, a toy; a means to an end.

 _An end._ That’s what she desired.

There was a point where the unbearable became more than that; so much more that Narcissa couldn’t express it with a word because no word could ever hope to describe the amount of horror she lived with everyday. It was as if the Dementors had kissed her; sucking away her soul. She could no longer think, nor feel, nor bare to breathe. She was as empty as a canvas, though couldn’t stand to wait any longer to find color and beauty in her life. It would never come; she was abandoned. Alone. Sick. Dying.

Narcissa didn’t even remember pouring the poison in her drink before she found herself drinking the entire glass in one go. She remembered the glass shattering to the ground as it slipped from her grasp though; she remembered her muscles shutting down and, unable to hold her anymore, she fell. Oh, she remembered falling. Something about it seemed so freeing; like in that one brief moment she had freedom from the shell she had become. But it didn’t last and the end came quick; her eyes glassing over as she stared out into nothingness. And with her last dying thought she prayed to anyone that found her worth hearing that in her next life she would find herself ugly; unwanted and undesired, because beauty was the worst curse put upon her in this life.

 **-FIN-**


End file.
